


An Itch To Scratch

by LaughableLament



Series: Midnight at the Majestic [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Costumes, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mirror Sex, PWP, Recreational Drug Use, Rocky Horror Picture Show - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rocky Horror kind of sucks, but who cares when Sam's in a corset? </p><p>Sequel to "Spaced Out on Sensation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Itch To Scratch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3White_Mage3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/gifts).



> Sometimes the muse answers prayers. (Or, how an innocent comment fill turned into porn.)

In hindsight, maybe the platforms hadn’t been the stroke of genius Sam imagined. For one thing, standing on the accursed things is killing him. Already. He wonders how girls even do this. And why.

The bigger problem? At six-foot-ten he towers over the tallest Rocky, unmissable since the minute they’d gotten in line. He’s not used to attention like this. Dean usually draws all the eyes.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve warned Dean about the costume contest. Thought it wouldn’t matter. Both their outfits are pretty half-assed. Dean’s because Sam hadn’t wanted to spook him, and Sam’s because, well, _you_ try finding lingerie in his size, on the road, and for cheap.

Dean’s face turns the shade of a ripe tomato when an usher taps Sam out as a finalist. Sam’s turns the shade of an unripe one, not that anyone sees under all his makeup. Cheers and wolf whistles chase him up onstage, where he's mercifully the first eliminated.

Still, he wins four drink tickets that turn into beers. Progress.

Packed amphitheatre, thick with pot and sweat and overpriced festival food. Sam gleefully hits the first joint someone passes him. Quick flick of an eyebrow and Dean hits it too. Gives Sam a shotgun to a chorus of catcalls. They pass around whiskey shots out of their pocket flasks.

The lights go down and the movie starts and it’s - craptastic. Cheesy, bizarre, unintentionally hilarious. Dean really gets into the squirt gun thing. That, and the flinging of toilet paper. ’Cause a little bit of Dean is always gonna be a ten-year-old. The two of them don't know the audience lines and don't care. Joints keep coming their way and they’re high and a little bit drunk and Dean has to half hold Sam up as he sways on his heels.

Once they’re back in their room Sam flops onto the nearest bed and bends to get rid of his godforsaken shoes. Dean’s fist in the back of his hair makes him pause. He looks up.

“Wait, Sam.” Dean licks his lips. Sinks to his knees and without preamble buries his tongue in Sam’s mouth.

Sam captures his brother’s face in gloved hands and gives back. Their teeth click together, tastes of weed and whiskey and Sam’s cheap lipstick passing back and forth. Dean’s fingers find the straps of Sam’s garters, unhook them. Slip slide and dance over Sam’s bare thighs, the strip of skin below his corset.

Dean runs his hands up the legs of Sam’s boy shorts. “I want these off,” he purrs in Sam’s mouth. “Leave the rest.” He stands.

Sam obeys while Dean gets rid of his own clothes. Goes to the sink and brings back a warm washcloth.

“I want that shit off your face too,” and Dean starts cleaning, gently wiping away Sam’s layers of blush and eye shadow and powder. He’s left with faint rings of mascara below his eyes.

Dean blows out a ragged breath and takes Sam by the hand. Leads him to the other bed. Sam sits, makes to situate himself against the headboard but Dean gives his arm a tug.

“Uh-uh.” He guides Sam around so he's crossways. Cocks his head at the mirror over the dresser. “Wanna see this.”

Sam grins, feels his nostrils flare. “Wow. Pervy much?”

“Said the guy in the corset,” Dean shoots back.

Sam laughs, a single bark, and lets his brother lay him out, legs spread and high heels on the floor.

Dean kneels between his feet. Picks up one platform shoe and starts to mouth around it, licking, kissing Sam’s instep, his ankle. Hooks his heel on the edge of the mattress. “Don’t move,” and he goes for the other, this time nipping his way up Sam’s calf to the back of his knee.

Sam groans. Hard and needy and getting fed up with all this teasing. He pushes up onto his elbows, corset staves digging into his skin. Looks at the picture they make in the mirror and his cock jumps.

Dean’s still holding one of Sam’s fishnet-covered legs in the air, mouthing now at the back of his thigh. Dean’s back and shoulders dip and writhe as he inches toward Sam’s groin. Fake patent leather glitters high above his head. And Sam already looks like the morning after, messy hair and smeared mascara and stockings falling down around his knees.

“Fuck, Dean. Look at us.”

Dean turns his head toward the mirror, hair tickling behind Sam’s leg. A hiccupping inhale and “Jesus.”

Their eyes meet in the reflection. A heartbeat. Two. And Dean rises from the floor to stretch out over Sam, blanketing his body and brushing their damp cocks against each other. They kiss, long and languid and Dean’s hands wind tight through Sam’s hair, pull his head back enough for Dean to suck a column of bright pink marks all down the long line of Sam’s neck.

He babbles. “God, Dean, your fuckin’ mouth, you drive me crazy with that shit” and he arches his back, stiff corset material catching and dragging along Dean’s stomach, his chest.

Apropos of nothing Sam thinks this is why Victorian houses had those fainting couches. He can barely breathe.

His eyes catch the mirror again when Dean turns his head to lick and nibble at his earlobe. And god his brother’s perfect ass is rising and falling between his legs, framed by fishnet and Sam grabs a hold with both hands, squeezes hard. Watches the white finger marks fade away as he lightly scratches up and down Dean’s muscled back.

Dean pushes up with one hand. Strokes Sam’s cheek, his hair with the other and all the things they never say are written in their lazy smiles. 

“You gonna fuck me or what?” ’Cause Sam knows when it’s time to break a moment.

His brother chuckles. “Yeah, Sammy. Yeah.”

Dean opens Sam with his fingers. Tries to go slow, make it gentle like always and Sam rocks down, gets impatient like always and Sam turns toward the mirror again. One foot slung over Dean’s broad shoulder, high heel dancing as Sam’s muscles flex. Dean plants soft kisses to the inside of the leg he’s holding, curling his fingers and twisting his wrist until Sam’s well past slicked up and ready.

Always so afraid of hurting Sam. Like he’s fragile.

No.

More like he’s precious.

Dean pushes in. With a low-pitched moan Sam takes him. Bows his back and wraps long legs around so his heels brush against his brother’s thighs. Foreheads pressed together they rock against each other and Sam loves this, drawing Dean into himself. Could drown in it.

Soon enough it’s not enough and Dean pushes up again. Sam puts his hands behind his knees and Dean puts a hand on Sam’s cock. They both look in the mirror now as they wiggle and work to find that golden angle, the one that’ll have Sam screaming his climax and shooting all over his corset. It doesn’t take long.

And then Dean’s pounding Sam in earnest. Sam whispers encouragement in sweet nothings and curses and they’re sweating, slamming into one another and Sam goes for one last look in time for Dean to howl and fill him up inside. Fuck into him wildly as Sam rolls and squeezes. Earns himself a string of gasps as Dean rides out his orgasm.

Dean doesn’t pull out until his softening cock slips free on its own.

Sam gives his brother a while to get his shit together. Then, “Can I please take off these fucking stilts now?”

Dean’s chest rumbles with laughter as he rolls off the bed. Takes Sam’s shoes off himself, massaging the aching arches and scrunched up toes. Sam moans blissfully.

He ditches his corset and gloves. Sits up. “You were quiet.”

“Your fuckin’ fault,” Dean says. “Havin’ to look at you all night like that. Had to concentrate to keep from shootin’ off in thirty seconds.” A pause. He licks his lips. “These shoes, man. We’re keepin’ these.”

Sam gives him a frosty stare. “You’re joking.”

Dean carefully divests Sam of his stockings. “If you’d seen what they do to your ass you’d know better.”

“My ass?” Sam thinks it through, how his center of gravity changed and how - “Huh.” He hauls Dean in for a kiss. “Special occasions only.”

“Like days that end in ‘y?’”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Only if that means hot as fuck.” Dean gives Sam his best sultry smile.

Sam grins. Where Dean’s concerned, it’s close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This installment's title from Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me ( _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ )


End file.
